


all our lonely kicks

by cyanides



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25446823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanides/pseuds/cyanides
Summary: Alex isn't sure if it would be better or worse, to go to your grave without knowing.Fate is a funny thing, but no one's laughing.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider, Yassen Gregorovich/John Rider
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	all our lonely kicks

**Author's Note:**

> Adding soulmate tropes to the Alex-Yassen-John emotional entanglement is like pouring petrol on a dumpster fire. I couldn't resist.

After the policemen leave, as Alex watches the watery dawn light seep through the kitchen windows, he wonders if Ian's soulmate knows.

Surely the police will visit Ian's soulmate as well - if they have any idea who it is. Given how fiercely private Ian was, though, Alex doubts he'd have let his soulmate's name or face be officially recorded. For the past fourteen years, throughout tropical holidays and impromptu home repairs and long sultry London afternoons, Alex has never seen Ian's bare left wrist; it's always been covered by a shirtsleeve, or one of the drab black bands businessmen wear to maintain etiquette.

Ian gave Alex a set of his own, years ago, and insisted Alex wear them whenever he went out. Other than that, he never displayed the slightest interest in Alex's soulmark, and Alex never asked about his either. It seemed only fair, and Alex understood even then that a real answer was unlikely.

Now he finds himself wishing he'd pried a little more. Maybe if he knew who it was, he could call them, so they would hear from _someone_. He can't imagine how horrible it must be, to be awoken by a bolt of pain and find your soulmark simply _gone_ , scrubbed away like a stain - and then to never learn how or why.

There might be a photo or a phone number or some other clue, locked away in the puzzle-box of Ian's office, but the chance is slim. Ian Rider never seemed that sentimental.

Besides, it occurs to Alex, that's assuming _Ian_ even knew who his soulmate was, that he ever saw them face to face. Alex isn't sure if it would be better or worse, to go to your grave without knowing.

* * *

"His name is Yassen Gregorovich," says Mrs. Jones. "We believe he killed Ian Rider."

Alex scans the photo again, imprinting every inch of it onto his memory, registering the nondescript outfit that does little to soften the tense body and shuttered face. A black band is visible on the man's wrist, Alex notes, and his fingers drift to his own almost unconsciously. It makes sense. A soulmark would be far too identifiable for an assassin. This man must know how to stay hidden, but Alex is sure he would recognise him anywhere. A chill hangs over him; Alex can almost feel it radiating from the image.

"By the way," Mrs. Jones says abruptly, as Alex pushes his chair back. "We wanted to ask, before you leave - who is your soulmate? Do you know yet?"

Laughter wells up in his throat, and he has to bite it back. "What, it's not in your files? Here I thought you knew about everything."

"It wasn't in your uncle's records," says Mrs. Jones. "We thought that maybe we could look out for them, while you're away. We'll make sure they know if anything happens."

"I thought nothing's going to happen," Alex says dryly. "That's why you're sending me."

He watches Mrs. Jones's fingers drum nervously on Yassen's printed features. Surely they can't be this transparent all the time, he thinks. It's not possible in their line of work. They just don't think _he's_ worth the effort.

"We only want to help, Alex."

This time, Alex lets the laugh escape; it's bitter in his mouth, brittle in his ears. "Oh, you've helped plenty already."

* * *

A slim figure steps onto the jetty, and Alex's breath catches. For a moment he thinks wildly that he's been struck, or shot, that this is what a bullet feels like - but there's no pain, he realises. Nothing but heat coursing through him, bright and sharp and dizzying, making his head swim and his heart pound as it pours down to collect in - in his wrist. He clutches at his arm. The skin under his wristband is burning like a brand; he almost expects it to be glowing through the cloth.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, because what else is there to say?

His brain supplies the gratingly chipper voice of a half-remembered after-school lecturer: _Now, this can be a bit of a shock when it happens, but remember - nothing is wrong! It feels odd, but that odd feeling will go away! Just stay calm, and wait for them to look back at you, and then-_

Huddled behind a boulder, watching Yassen Gregorovich issue orders, Alex thinks that this is probably not the kind of setup they had in mind.

Hours later, his breathing still hasn't settled as he crawls back into bed, careful to keep his movements quiet. On impulse, he tugs off his band; the skin beneath is raw and tender, and he feels every beat of the pulse throbbing urgently in his wrist. In the weak moonlight, the mark itself almost looks darker now, the colour of a bloodstain.

It's just his imagination, he tells himself. This doesn't change anything. Yassen Gregorovich killed Ian Rider. That's the plain, solid truth, an anchor to hold onto.

Another fragment drifts into his head, this time of Ian. _It may happen someday,_ he's saying, in his calm, smooth inflection. _Not necessarily - this is a big world. But no matter what, it doesn't have to take over your life, unless you let it._

Alex clings on to that as long as he can, but his uncle's voice is fading, drowned out by the hollow roar of blood in his ears.

* * *

Yassen Gregorovich crosses the roof with the easy grace of a predator. Alex doesn't move, though his fists are clenched so tight, his nails are about to draw blood.

He doesn't want to run. That's the worst part of it. His instincts are telling him to get away from this man, this killer - but on a level below that, every part of him is straining towards Yassen, tugged by a force too deeply buried and too enormous for him to pinpoint. It surges within him and over him, like the pull of the tides, and it takes all the strength he can muster to resist.

So he stays rooted to the spot as Yassen looks over Herod Sayle's corpse, and when that cool blue gaze finally flicks up to meet his, it almost knocks him backwards.

 _He knows,_ is all Alex can think, that certainty lodging in his chest, crowding out any other words or breath. Of course Yassen knows. He probably realised when he saw Alex from the helicopter, and if he didn't, he certainly knows now.

"Don't say it," he chokes out. He knows he sounds more plaintive than forceful, but he can't help it. He's barely managed to wrap his mind around this; he can't stand hearing the words spoken aloud by anyone else. Especially not by the man who killed his uncle and is now regarding him coolly across a corpse.

Yassen shrugs, the motion fluid. "Is there anything to be said?"

His voice is level, impassive, as though they're talking about the weather or stock prices, and it fills Alex with a wave of sickening relief mingled with shame. He finds himself staring into those inscrutable eyes fixed on him, searching through their depths for some flicker of - of what?

The moment stretches taut.

"I killed him on my instructions," Yassen finally says, as though answering the question that sits uneasily in Alex's head. "That is all."

"This means nothing," Alex spits, letting the words tumble out because it's easier than thinking about them. "You killed my uncle. One day I'll kill you."

A smile crosses Yassen's lips, and something within Alex stirs at the sight. He bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

"You can try," says Yassen. His tone is matter-of-fact, but somehow it has the ring of a taunt.

Alex watches as Yassen turns and climbs back into the helicopter. He fastens his eyes on the rotors as they begin to whir, and he lets his mind and vision blur as the helicopter vanishes into the distance, ignoring how every nerve in his body is screaming at him to follow it.

* * *

Yassen runs a finger along the bandage on his neck. The pain is still sharp, even from this light touch, but he savours it. He can already picture the scar that will form - thin, straight, running across his entire neck, unmistakably the mark of a bullet. An extraordinary shot fired by extraordinary hands.

He tips his head back and looks up at the stars, barely visible between the leaves. As he tilts his head, a fresh wave of pain washes through the wound, and he lets it soak into him. He will bear this mark for the rest of his life. No other can live up to this.

"Have you met your soulmate yet?" Hunter asks suddenly, in that uncanny way he has of seemingly plucking Yassen's thoughts from the air.

Yassen tries not to flinch. "No," he says, a bit stiffly. "It's never been a priority."

"I'm sure they're great," Hunter says. "They must be something pretty special, to be yours."

Yassen's heart clenches. He'll never get used to how Hunter delivers compliments, with the same casual, offhand precision as a knife sliding between ribs. At least Hunter isn't looking his way; his gaze is trained on the fire as he stokes its embers.

"It's probably better like this, though," Hunter says, still not glancing at him. "You don't really get to settle down with them, in this line of work."

 _And what about you?_ Yassen almost asks, but swallows the question. They've never brought up Hunter's wedding band, and Yassen knows better than to ask and watch the shutters slam behind Hunter's eyes. Still, there's a sour twist in Yassen's gut. Hunter sees through him unerringly, has watched him laid bare so many times - but whenever Yassen tries to return the gaze, up go the walls.

His fingers move back to the bandage. Hunter dodges and evades, and Yassen knows deep down that he'll slip out of Yassen's life as effortlessly as he slid into it, but at least Yassen will always have this.

* * *

As the helicopter settles into its steady flight, Yassen takes a hand off the controls and traces the scar on his neck. It's an old habit, and one he's never really tried to shake, despite what his mentors might say about that.

John Rider told him the truth about at least one thing, he reflects. This isn't a line of work for soulmates.

Not that knowing this is any guarantee of protection. John Rider wasn't even his soulmate, after all, and look how that turned out. And Yassen was older than Alex Rider is now, with a past that should have inoculated him against sentiment, and yet - somehow it caught him out.

Really, it's in Alex Rider's best interests if their paths never cross again.

Yassen's fingers stray from his neck to his other wrist. Almost involuntarily, they slip under the band of cloth.

The skin here has never been wounded; it hasn't had years to scar over and grow accustomed to the touch of calloused hands. Yassen tells himself this is why he shivers at the brush of his fingertips across it, and the memory of Alex Rider's eyes locked on his.


End file.
